


Delta Echo Alpha Delta

by sunflowerspaceman



Series: Sympathy for the Devil [1]
Category: Eddsworld - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Blood and Gore, But He Gets Better, Cannibalism, Gore, Tom edd and Matt show up but the main focus is tord, Tord sort of dies, Zombie Apocalypse, Zombies, and yes, does a zombie eating people count as cannibalism, tagging that to be safe, that is a lemon demon reference
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-16
Updated: 2018-12-16
Packaged: 2019-09-20 01:16:15
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,161
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17012775
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunflowerspaceman/pseuds/sunflowerspaceman
Summary: You are dead and buriedYou are dead (oh no!)That’s being revised!Tord gets the short end of the stick in the zombie apocalypse.





	Delta Echo Alpha Delta

Matt gets taken, and Tord’s world shatters.

He can’t pretend like he was taking this seriously before that point. In all fourteen years of his life he had ever actually been through this before—he’d been in Norway every other time this had happened.

Norway didn’t have zombies.

Norway did everything in its power to prevent this from happening. Graveyards kept far, far outside cities, caretakers left in groups and taught to deal with the first signs of the dead rising as soon as possible, preventative measures older than sin used to keep them from ever making their way up. Legends of draugr didn’t come from nowhere after all, and the Scandinavian nations were well prepared.

England was not. England had graveyards in the cities. England had lone caretakers who couldn’t dispatch the beginnings of an outbreak. England didn’t put needles in their feet, or tie their toes together, or brick them up in their graves. They just let the bodies sit there and rot and spread their decay when the time came.

Tord remembers his confusion at seeing an English graveyard for the first time.

Tord hears his best friend scream for help, and sees him dragged away, and he wants to throw up and the next few moments of his life don’t really exist for him but when time starts existing he’s staring blankly at the floor in an office building. He vaguely hears Edd ask if he’s okay and all that tumbles out of his mouth is a shaky whisper. 

“M-Matt’s gone.”

There are hot and heavy tears rolling down his face. Matt’s gone. It repeats in his head and what happened plays over and over again in his head. His stomach churns. And he isn’t quite paying attention again, because if he was he would’ve noticed that they’re on the first floor, that the window is open, and that there are hands pulling him through before it was too late. He manages to scream Edd’s name and then there are teeth ripping a chunk out of his neck and hands digging into his eye socket and ripping at his chest and there’s enough awareness still left in him through the haze of pain for him to hear someone screaming for him.

When he wakes up everything hurts. There’s something deep and primal inside of him right now, that wants him to rip and tear and eat, and some part of his brain is telling him that will make the agony stop. The thought of listening to that part of him scares him shitless. 

He catches sight of another person and reaches out and his vocal cords are severely fucked and he doesn’t have much in the way of lungs but somehow he manages to get out the word “Help.”

The person runs. The flesh and blood and bone person runs away, and Tord gives chase, and that part of him telling him to eat is getting louder and louder.

He manages to trap them in an alley, and the hunger is gnawing at him, eating away at his higher consciousness which is screaming at him and telling him “NO!” 

There’s so much blood. Tord is indiscriminately ripping at any bit of flesh he sees with his teeth, his hands, trying to sate that all consuming need. A part of him deep down notes that it tastes like pork. For a little while, he can’t feel his flesh rotting away anymore, and his head is clear. He spends that clarity trying to truly and properly cry and begging for a pair of survivors, “Help. Help.  _ Help _ .”

Instead he finds himself waking up again in a shallow grave. They buried him. And he feels that hunger starting to slowly fade into consciousness, and he considers just staying here and letting himself rot. He wants this to end desperately. But the dirt is too claustrophobic, and instead he tears out of the ground like a bat out of hell, though what’s hell when you’re an eviscerated, rotting, fully conscious corpse? Maybe Tord died and this is hell. 

The part of him desperately searching for any tiny slice of humor, anything, notes his dick could fall off, and he wishes he could laugh but he can’t because it feels like everything is falling off of him.

He stumbles down the road and he tries to stave off the hunger this time with roadkill but it’s not enough and he knows it. He tries eating himself, but it’s not enough either. It’s not enough, and he can feel the hunger slowly clouding his head again. 

He finds a person. He doesn’t get a good look at them. He senses their warmth, smells blood, sweat, hears screams. 

The fog starts to clear again, finally.

He’s stumbling down the road again, and oh. That’s a hospital. 

His rotten fists slam on the doors, crying out, “HELP.  _ HELP _ .  **_HELP_ ** .” The pain is excruciating and he wishes he could cry, wishes his mother was here. But she’s not, and he screams for help. And the doors snap open, and he’s grabbed again and slammed down onto something squishy and straps go around his legs, his wrists, his head. He repeats the word over and over. “Help. Help. Help.” 

Doctors are hurriedly replacing organs, stitching Tord together as much as they can. Something goes into his neck, and he screams. He feels rotten chunks of flesh sloughing off and being replaced by new skin and fat and muscle. If he looks down he sees his heart starting to beat, and he howls. He cries and he sobs and he screams for his mother. “HURTS,” he yells, before bile starts swelling in his throat and he starts choking on his own vomit. The increasingly small part of him that’s staying lucid through all of this feels bad for the nurses that are going to have to deal with the mess in his pants. 

That lucid part of him vanished just then. His world goes black.

He wakes up to his mother asleep on his stomach. His father is across the bed from her, head tilted back and passed out in his chair. Tom is asleep on a couch, leaning against Edd. 

Matt is awake in the bed next to him, and appears to be more confused than usual. His confusion seems to reach new heights when Tord starts crying. Matt’s okay. Matt’s safe. Matt’s here. 

The crying wakes his mom, then his dad, then Edd and Tom. More tears are shed, because they’re alive. They made it. They’re safe and they’re alive and they’re together. Matt asks what happened and no one tells him, because Matt’s sensitive and the fact he doesn’t remember is seen as a blessing. Just like the fact they both made it here, and the fact they both managed to survive the cure. 

Every molecule of Tord’s body aches, now, and he’s so very tired. He drifts off with his mother holding his hand.


End file.
